“Consecrate him. That’s your job.”
“We can’t do that till he recovers his faculties.”
“He’s nothing to me. And you’re even less.”
There were hard feelings. It had been but two days since Mustaf had petitioned the abbot for permission to draw water from the Shrine’s spring. The abbot had denied him.
Al Assad, cunningly, had brought the chieftain up by way of the Shrine’s gardens, where lush flowerbeds in careful arrangements glorified God. Mustaf was in no mood to be charitable.
The abbot was in the jaws of a merciless trap. The laws of good works were the high laws of the Shrine. He dared not abrogate them before his brothers. Not if he wished to retain his post. But neither was he ready to allow this boy to mutter his heretical insanities where they could upset the thinking of his charges.
“My friend, we had hard words over a matter we discussed recently. Perhaps I reached my decision a bit hastily.”
Mustaf smiled a predatory smile. “Perhaps.”
“Two score barrels of water?” the abbot suggested.
Mustaf started toward the doorway.
Al Assad shook his head sadly. They were going to dicker like merchants while a boy lay dying. He departed in disgust, taking himself to his cell.
Within the hour he surrendered to the embrace of the Dark Lady.
Micah wakened suddenly, rational, intuiting that a long time had passed. His last clear memory was of walking beside his father as their caravan began the last league to El Aquila. Shouts... a blow... pain... reminiscences of madness. There had been an ambush. Where was he now? Why wasn’t he dead? An angel... There had been an angel.
Snatches returned. He had been returned to life, to become a missionary to the Chosen. A disciple.
He rose from his pallet. His legs betrayed him immediately. He lay panting for several minutes before finding the strength to crawl to a flapway.
The el Habib had confined him to a tent. They had quarantined him. His words had made Mustaf tremble. The chieftain could sense the blood and pain beyond such mad perspectives.
Micah yanked the flap.
The afternoon sun slapped his face. He threw an arm across his eyes and cried out. That devil orb was trying to murder him again.
“You idiot!” a voice snarled as someone pushed him back inside. “You want to blind yourself?”
The hands that guided him to his pallet became tender. The afterimages faded. He discovered his companion to be a girl.
She was about his own age. She wore no veil.
He shrank away. What was this? Some temptation of the Evil One? Her father would kill him....
“What happened, Meryem? I heard him yell.” A youth of about sixteen slipped inside. Micah retreated in earnest.
Then he remembered who and what he was. The hand of the Lord had touched him. He was the Disciple. No one could question his righteousness.
“Our foundling got himself an eyeful of sun.” The girl touched Micah’s shoulder. He flinched away.
“Back off, Meryem. Save the games for when he can handle them.” To Micah he said, “She’s father’s favorite. The last born. He spoils her. She gets away with murder. Meryem. Please? The veil?”
“Where am I?” Micah asked.
“El Aquila,” the youth replied. “In a tent behind the hut of Mustaf abd-Racim ibn Farid el Habib. The Al Ghabha priests found you. You were almost dead. They turned you over to my father. I’m Nassef. The brat is my sister Meryem.” He sat down cross-legged facing Micah. “We’re supposed to take care of you.”
He did not sound enthusiastic.
“You were too much bother for them,” the girl said. “That’s why they gave you to Father.” She sounded bitter.
“What?”
“Our oasis is drying up. The one at the Shrine is still wet, but the abbot won’t share his water rights. The holy gardens flourish while the el Habib thirst.”
Neither mentioned their sire’s pragmatic deal.
“Did you really see an angel?” Meryem asked.
“Yes. I did. He bore me up among the stars and showed me the lands of the earth. He came to me in the hour of my despair and gave me two priceless gifts: my life, and the Truth. And he bade me take the Truth to the Chosen, that they might be freed of the bondage of the past and in turn carry the Word to the infidel.”
Nassef flashed a sarcastic look in his sister’s direction. Micah saw it plainly.
“You too shall know the Truth, friend Nassef. You shall see the flowering of the Kingdom of Peace. The Lord has returned me to the living with the mission of creating his Kingdom on earth.”
In ages to come there would be countless bitter words spilled over El Murid’s returned-to-life remarks. Did he
